To Dream the Impossible Dream

”…We were like those who dream, then our mouth was filled with laughter and our tongue with joyful shouting.  ...”  [Psalm 126:1-2]

The intercom sounded and my name was called—I picked up the phone and life paused.  There has been an accident— “so sorry”, came the deep voice of the surgeon, “a main artery has been cut, we have called in a specialist.”

 Where does the heart go when words are spoken and the unthinkable draws close?  There must be a special veil that is drawn across the heart of a mother, when such information is given across the wires and as factual, as precisely as a temperature reading.  

I stood there not really grasping the words but only to think to call her husband and for a moment use the action to distance my heart from reality; our daughter’s life was in danger.  The waiting room became vague the noise slipped back as if no longer part of the physical environment.  Numb to the obvious we  waited—my sister and I—for such a time as this she had been sent on ‘holiday’, four thousand miles,  for just a visit.  As always throughout my life the awesome Sovereignty and watch-care of God was being displayed, by her very presence and when I needed my sister the most she was beside me!    

A simple surgery—growing from deep desire and longing—to become pregnant, to birth a child, to have a family. 

From the beginning of time God ordained it, sown in all of creation this desire for procreation cannot be denied, no misfortune can snuff-out the hope or diminish the dream.     To bear a child, to grow a family, to extend life.  Why now, why such agony of fruit from such a Godly desire. 

There are no answers in times of the valley of the shadow of death only hope, only desperate cries for help and healing.  This was not the first attempt to ‘make the impossible possible’—many others had taken this road and lived to birth a family like a hen gathering her chicks beneath her wings.  But for our daughter this attempt would prove to be the last—no more man-made attempts, no more experiments.  If this Sovereign Creator wanted to fulfill His Word, that man would procreate, then it would be done by Him alone!  This was the verdict and this the faith.  Not my will but thine be done.

Time went by, faith at times lagging but never far away— God holds fast to the heart and the heart holds fast the promise of God.    A few years pass—the home is made ready—a big home with room to play and to provide a nursery—faith lives.   I watched as hope struggled within the one who sought to stay strong and believe the miracle would come…and it did!

Not as man would think but as God had planned—conceived in less than love a little one was growing in the womb of one of no desire—but God had a plan.  Divine connections were made at the funeral of a friend of a friend and the plan of God moved into action.  Seven weeks later in a far-away place this miracle child was born and moments later placed in the arms of desire of our daughter. —The dream had come true!   What a gift of absolute joy.   At that moment a family was born, hope was fulfilled and the fight of faith was over for this miracle.    

REMEMBERING....

The Hill

I awoke this morning to see the dawn creeping over the ridge of mountains, the hard earth against my body did nothing for the ache inside, I wrapped the linen more tightly around me, as if to take away the sudden chill, knowing it was not the morning air but the happenings of the past few days that made it so,  surely...today will be a different day.

Stirring myself I remember our  journey  together and wonder what will this day  hold, how will it be now that our Master is to be crucified on a Cross and  treated like a common criminal.  I rise to go and mourn as many will for generations to come.    

I walk slowly up the hill hoping desperately things had changed—that somehow during the long dark night something miraculous had happened and our Master will not have to go through this valley of death—but it was not to be,  already in the dawns early light He hung there and my heart twisted with the reality that nothing would ever be the same.

The sudden silence—as if all creation, even the universe, is holding its breath, waiting…will man survive;  will this unseen war reach its bloody conclusion soon.  The time ticks by, how long will the silence last?  His chest suddenly heaves again and the silence is broken, life as we know it continues for yet another immeasurable moment in time.  As the chest falls, ripping and tearing the broken flesh and the dripping blood staggers the mind…He was to be our king...All around us  this strange fading light screams at us of dissolving dreams, shadowing hopes—those desperate desires that things could change and be different.  Wickedness, and her spawn evil laughter, chuckle gleefully as  anger gives way to despair and all around women weep and men turn their faces away from such defeat. 

I remember another hill not many days past when children laughed, and parents listened to the wonder filled words that  seemed to flow from His lips.  And now…what now…can I really absorb this reality and live?  I hear the crack of a whip, probably the same one that struck his back gouging and ripping open the flesh that now hangs in raw agony against the wooden post he’s nailed to. 
My mind is full of words, words of truth spoken by men of old in ages long past—who was it? –yes, I recall, it was Job who said "He marks out the horizon on the face of the waters for a boundary between light and darkness!"  [Job 26:10]

Between light and darkness---could it be this strange fading light is being marked by this man that claims to have owned the horizon?  Another sharp crack and I stir myself—“what did you say”—I ask of the man mumbling his words beside me, this soldier standing by watching his assignment of death by crucifixion,  his words are lost to my ears as wind and gathering storm carry them away.  He mumbles again a little louder this time, —“who is this man,?  he asked, as if baffled by the sense of impending wrath of God, for surely this untimely roaring cloud, crushing wind and rushing darkness has never been seen on such a bright and sunny day. 

I listen now to the One who suffers so—hanging on a roughly hewn Cross silhouetted against the darkened sky.  This Cross is stark and cruel, rough and raw,  like a bridge hung between heaven and hell.  I am undone by the sight of such cruelty and struck dumb by compassion as He speaks. “Father, forgive them. For they do not know what they are doing.”  Surely this is no human response, no man can draw from his own well this all consuming, unconditional love.

There are no children on this mountain—and many adults have left, only a few remain, drawn perhaps by something beyond their knowing yet gripped by their own sense of loss and shame.

 I move forward slightly as He turns His head.  I wonder what He would say to those whose life also hung in the balance, those hanging on their own cross beside Him—paradise He says to one of them, “…today you will be with me in paradise…” The other made no sound but smirked, I suppose at such a thought.

A sudden and wrenching cry escaped from deep within His brokenness and His words  echo around the mountain and a piercing pain almost tangible touched my ears —“My God, My God why have you forsaken me?”  Such depths of agony weaving through His cry made my soul shudder and my eyes weep in utter abandon to such hopeless, helpless suffering. 

There are muffled sounds of weeping coming from the small crowd and the atmosphere is one of deep sadness and unbelief that this could be happening.  An undeniable anger stirred within me when I remember the last three years—yes we had failed Him many times but we were human…here in this gathering darkness hung the Son of David the Messiah, heaving, shaking with pain, void of power—no miracle worker this—and we are left to stand or fall in the wake of such defeat.
Just as suddenly I return from my spurious journey and settle into my place beneath an empty Cross—I smile to myself as praise floods my soul, looking back has brought me unbelievable Joy.  He is no longer on the Cross neither is He in the tomb but faith assures me He sits beside His Father and intercedes on my behalf—what power this love is that would defeat death, hell and the grave and make a way for me to journey home to Him.

~DINX~  March 2012

                                                  Perseverance

There are days, weeks, months and perhaps even years when the only ‘word’ you know is ‘perseverance’. 

Wherever we are in this world God’s truth is revealed through the ordinary... and I remember.  Living on the mission field, the small apartment was in the heart of a community full of drinking and drugs, poverty and deprivation. The houses all crammed together each flaunted a small apron of garden between them and the sidewalk.   No bigger than a postage stamp the garden was a reflector of where the heart of the occupant would either grow or neglect the garden and generally reflect light or darkness, hope or despair.   Neighbors came and left before you could even meet them—generally staying long enough to destroy what little beauty could be seen. 

The present family was among those who at midnight when the pubs closed their doors, would stumble into the streets either singing or cursing and fights were not infrequent.

When the streets became quiet I would fall asleep—but there was one night I awoke to hear unfamiliar noises—as I peeked through the curtains I saw the strangest sight.  There was the new neighbor in the dim lamplight, spade in hand, clearing out the debris in his little plot of ground—and there was a lot!  Old beer bottles—paper goods—tin cans—you name it the ground had become a garbage dump for those living there before him as well as those passing by.  I silently dropped the curtain, wondering why on earth he chose to work through the night.  I laid down to the thud of digging and fell into a fitful sleep.  Early morning came and my first thought was to open the curtain and see what the neighbor had done. 

To say I was amazed is an understatement—there before my eyes was the little garden—stripped of all but the soft loamy soil—the dirt was cleared of debris, ploughed and raked, beautiful in its nakedness it was ready for planting or sowing.  Working all through the night the one responsible had turned a garbage dump into a delight, a picture of transformation—a postcard of earth ready for the planting.   

What a wonderful parable of how our Heavenly Father works—all through the night of our despair and hopelessness He is unperturbed—His plans and purposes never thwarted, never changed—His arm is never shortened but reaches into the neglected places of life. He clears away the overgrowth and debris and exposes the original and authentic ground of our lives.  It is there that seeds are sown, flowering plants are positioned to delight the eye with color and encourages the heart with new hope.  Our perseverance has paid off.   See!  The winter is past; the rains are over and gone.

Suddenly---the sun breaks through the clouds, a new breeze blows through the soft air of Spring and it all makes sense.  Joy comes in the morning and all throughout the day there is strength.  In the prophetic Word of Jeremiah.  "...The seed will grow well, the vine will yield its fruit, the ground will produce its crops, and the heavens will drop their dew.  I will give all these things as an inheritance to the remnant of this people"  

~Diane~ March 2012

Moments of ‘puzzlement’….

Moments of ‘puzzlement’….

Puzzles have always been part of our Christmas tradition and being in Austria was no different.  With the gift of two different puzzles Kathleen and I set about putting them together.   The  first one was a gift from the U.S. it was called ‘Perspectives’ and depicted the four seasons—summer, winter, spring and fall. It was not too difficult to complete because  each season had its own marks of individual identification.   One can always recognize what the present season of life is.

 

The second puzzle which was European –was called ‘Panorama’.  A waterfront view of buildings all shapes, sizes and colors.  In front of the buildings and all along the side-walk  were many people, all milling around enjoying the celebratory  atmosphere and warmth of sunshine at the waters-edge.  

The water was like the colors of Jacob's coat,  it reflected the light that shone on the  buildings reflecting their individual colors.  This is an analogy where the two concepts of personality and seasons of life converge and create understanding of the new season.   When the light shone on the buildings it caused the reflection of their shape, size and color on the water to merge into a swathe of beauty,  many different tones and hues, like the seasons of our lives.  No individual season or single passage of time could possibly create these new colors but rather together they give opportunity to behold a whole new perspective.

This is what the first puzzle was all about.  Both Isaiah and Paul encourage us to ‘forget the former things….’  Not to disrespect or declaim their value but because it is in  releasing the past the present creates the colors of today and produce new things of tomorrow. 

 All of life like that of separate seasons are merged into harmony and what they produce is not defined by seasons of the past but cultivated by its richness and creates new life and a panoramic view of emerging possibilities.  

Seeking direction requires focus on individual elements of life, details, like those on a map but seeking new perspective is only discovered when the light of the ‘Son’ shines on all seasons revealing our true self, giving a compass which points true north and new vision

Out of the vibrancies of colors a dream emerges, a new story begins…

       Diane

January 2012

A TIME OF THANKSGIVING...

WHAT I HAVE LEARNED ABOUT MYSELF AND MY WRITER’S VOICE.

Through the  writing group I've learned that my voice when accepted as evolving, becomes a window where as if on angel’s wings thoughts fly and capture the beauty and reality of things and thoughts just newly born. 

I've learned how words like salve on a wound bring healing to inner grief and pain.  My voice transformed into words creates stillness, they remind me that there is no joy without sorrow and there is no suffering without compassion.  There is no confusion without finding on the far side a peace that passes all understanding.    Life has two sides to it as every coin has a head and a tail, and all that is, turns to all it can be.  Words give choices to how these coins are spent and which has the greatest value.  Words written like words spoken can never really be erased--- perhaps from the paper, but never from the space between the heart and the letters on the page. 

Every season, every situation calls and echoes memories of how it used to be--I've learned through writing not to waste my sorrows but hold them so close to my heart that they become a soft sweet joy of fellowship not lost but transformed into a life well lived and a past full of wholeness where sorrow and joy flow mingled together.  

I've learned that writing sets the spirit free to remember yesterday and to dream of tomorrow.  Words capture essence and flavor that was it not written down would be lost and life depreciated.  Words reveal who I am--the shades, the shadows the shape ordained and predestined to shine in fullness. 

The 'hurry' of today is made to saunter by the written words--elongated the words reveal depth of meaning and greater application.

It is Thanksgiving day and the trees are bare now for the most part but in being so they expose the peaks of mountains surrounding us, reminding me of the loving arms of our heavenly Father.  Light streams through the naked structures of yesterdays abundant harvest and trees with branches no longer covered are exposed to the light.

As I set the table for six, sadness fills my heart and causes a tear to trickle silently down my face.  How often in the past I had wished I had silver serving for everyone--I do now--and I recall those times I did not.  The table is set but not for nine, just six---all the wonderful memories fill my mind and sadness threatens to overwhelm me--but no, I listen as I fold the bread napkin in a different manner as ever before and I am reminded that changes come in so many ways---many small like the napkin while others leave a 'gap' and a silver serving of six is enough.  And I find 'my voice' in the words I write. 

 Acceptance with Joy is a difficult place to come, yet there I rest and by God's grace will continue to allow my memories to bring comfort and warmth.  They are with me always, they are who I am, filling the corridors of my mind with all the joys and sorrows known in our home, our fellowship, our family.  Each child taught and learned to lead the family in prayer, to read the scriptures placed before them and listen to those further along share how life had made them real.  

As the Psalmist himself reveals the word begins so small and close like a noun that grows from within to become an object waiting for life and breadth of meaning.  Writing brings soul's ascension as the words like stair steps lead to a place of openness, a wider place, a place to breathe and perceive from higher vantage points. In them lay  views beyond description and thanksgiving to God that fills the void and says life is made even more abundant by the changing seasons. 

Diane M. Hale

11/23/11

TAKE TIME TO PONDER

"For to us a child is born, to us a son is given,

and the government will be on his shoulders.

And he will be called Wonderful Counselor,

Mighty God, Everlasting Father,

         Prince of Peace"

Before we race into another month of busyness ponder a moment about the passing year. A year when trials have touched all people.  Grief and loss has torn the covering of every relationship and struggle often been relentless.  Even so life is too beautiful to allow the struggle to bring defeat.  Without dirt on the forest floor the beauty of trees would never be seen. This is the miracle of new birth.

Christmas is a message of simplicity.  Quietly, a tiny child, small and ordinary, is born and the whole earth stands in awe, wise men still seek Him and invite Him into the manger of their hearts

Christmas is a message of identity  He came to identify with us so that we might identify with Him.  Made in the image and likeness of God, breathed upon by His Holy Spirit lives become reflectors of the Christ-child within.

Christmas is a message of intimacy   The virgin birth is more than Holy story; it reveals how closely God desires to come to man, an intimacy deeper than any afore known to man.

Christmas is a message about people, relationships, friends and decisions we make, choices and the debris of wrong choices but what of the 'right' choices---much of the fruit of good choices is not immediately seen but as time goes by there is a wake in man’s life that speaks volumes. The rip tides of life may knock us off our feet but the ebb and flow work together to reveal underlying truth and the strength of what lies beneath the water-line of our lives reflects who we are.

Christmas is a message of foundation, a starting point, a birth to every relationship formed, giving power for relationships to reach fruition—if we master the rip tides and stand on the foundation of faith in Christ then come what may our lives will have counted for something and relationships hold steady. 

We all ‘mess up’, we make mistakes and wish yesterday could be erased but as you ponder and play the ‘what if’ game ponder this—‘what if’ Christ had not come—‘what if’ Grace had not be given—how sad would that be… but God wrapped in the simplicity of a babe did come—come to Him this Christmas and rejoice in His appearing.

The message of Christmas is found in quiet moments and our ability to maintain the quietness of soul in the midst of busyness. Behind the activity there is a closing and opening of the days of our lives but how easily we miss the important through the tyranny of the urgent.

Regardless of circumstance 2012 will begin…nothing can stop the turning of  AT morning to night or hold back the New Year.  Why the emphasis on pondering?  To halt the activity long enough for the soul to adjust and get in tune with God’s agenda as He prepares His people for the days ahead…a really nice way of saying,” Repent for the kingdom of heaven is at hand"
                                   HAVE A BLESSED AND GLORIOUS CHRISTMAS EVERYONE

 MAY THE PEACE, LOVE AND JOY OF THE SEASON FLOOD YOUR HEART AND HOME.

THE CLOSING

The car turned and nosed its way slowly into the driveway.  How many times in the past ten years had I come to visit; looking up and expecting to see someone on the porch or happily opening the back door with a wave, a smile and “Daniel’s got the kettle on”. 

The gravel crunched under the tires as I slipped into neutral and turned off the ignition.  The car began to roll down the slope in the garden as I suddenly realized I had forgotten to put the hand brake on.  I shook myself and pulled it tight bringing the car to an immediate stop.   Everything seemed the same and yet different—something was missing, something was waiting.  I glanced over at the house hoping to hear the screen door squeak or a voice shout out “hello nana”. 

The flower beds too were waiting—flowers along with weeds were trailing outside of the borders and winding along paths no longer visible to the eye but I knew they were there. Flowering bushes gallantly reaching up to show themselves in the midst of the overgrown underbrush—hoping someone would come and clear the ground that they may see and be seen once again. 

It was quiet, a peaceful quiet, the woodworking shop looked different somehow—I could see the sunlight shining through the side window lighting the empty shop, gone were the woodchips and sawdust of earlier days—and I remembered.  The telephone call, “come quickly Daniel has had an accident”—the saw had slipped and amid the blood and panic fingers were missing.   We sat waiting in the hospital waiting room, and when we knew it was his left hand, the hand that deftly found the strings on the violin he loved so well—fresh pain broke your heart as you realized he may never play again—for he was a fine violinist.   I rocked you back and forth as if you were a child again, the tears subsided and time healed your heart and Daniel persevered until that day when breathlessly we sat waiting in the pew for the first strain of worship music flowing through the hands we were so afraid would never play again.  

I turned taking a path around the trees leading to the potters shed—I could almost hear the swish of the wheel as Kathy sat caressing  the vessel and as the potter’s wheel turned she whispered prayers for her heavenly Father to give her a family. 

I wasn’t sure why I had been prompted to come—why now—why today?  I had thought often that perhaps once a new family had settled in I would come.  I didn’t think I could face the sadness of an empty house whose rooms such a short time ago were filled with love and laughter.  But the prompting hadn’t left so I came.  The door creaked a little as I pulled it open, light spilling into windows on all sides made it look inviting, even though it was empty now of vessels ready for the kiln, how proud she was of her creative work—and I remembered.  

She reached up to push back the wisps of hair that curled around her face, using the back of her hand she gingerly tucked it behind her ear trying not to get the clay in her hair but somehow never was successful.   Beads of moisture made her face shine,  her eyes sparkled more blue as she smiled the smile that I had known and loved since she was a child, it was a smile that lit-up her face even when I knew she was sad or lonely for the child she could never have. 

I didn’t enter the house right away but went across the freshly mown lawn to the neighbors, stopping along the way I gazed at the swing seat that we all had enjoyed so much.  What wonderful friends the neighbors had been to our little family.  It was them that checked the house, opened the windows for fresh air to fill the rooms and mowed the grass.   There they were as usual—a happy welcome in their voice.  “Hello, come in; sit awhile, how about a cool drink.”  Just what I needed in this hot and humid weather.  It was cool inside and as I settled into the familiar surroundings we talked of old times, “remember when…” one would say and off they’d go retelling the stories of life and love.   How greatly the little family was missed and how good God had been as they found a new home and settled in the far away land of Austria.   Their call to missions was changing our lives and influencing so many in its wake.

There’s comfort in shared loss, and moments when a memory is too dear to speak of.   Yet there is joy and freedom in realizing that though far away love cannot be lost and is carried in special gift boxes and 21^st century technology Skype.  We laughed and remembered together the days that seem so long ago.

I knew now why I had come, closure of seasons yes but never closure to those we love, those we thank God for in being part of our life even in the smallest ways.  She handed me the key, “it’s the back door”, she called, as I turned to face the empty house. 

I move slowly back across the lawn and slipped pass the huge oak trees, glancing once more at the swing I could hear the faint voice of yesterday…”push me nana, push me”. 

Coming to the steps I remembered—so little but so curious I couldn’t believe she could back down those steps and in her new found independence say loudly, “ come nana come”.  The garden was new territory as off she went to explore.  Her little legs flying down the slope of the garden toward the woods and me calling—“Ava Grace wait”.  She never seemed to hear but she would stop and wait pointing out the place where Tilly, her loyal playmate and family dog was buried beneath the tree.  

As I stand ready to turn the key in the back door her voice rings out again and even the buzz of bees echo around the porch as she bravely says, “Go way bee... go way”. She hadn’t always been with us—but we prayed. The prayers...oh yes, there wasn’t always love and laughter, but days of sorrow, days of wishing, hoping praying—would a family ever come?    We believed and God in His infinite wisdom had already picked out Ava Grace—way before time began she was chosen for our family.  She was our little miracle kept for the perfect moment and given to her mother and father.  A miracle that had woven love into our hearts and joy into our family. 

It wasn’t really that long ago—or was it—time has a way of either compressing or stretching itself to fit the moment at hand.  Had it really only been three months since they said their last goodbye?  Stepping boldly out into the new life they had been given. The house hadn’t sold—the only thing left of the former days.  But I must say my goodbyes.

I turned the knob and stepped inside.  It was so quiet—that sense again of waiting not the waiting of a house but waiting of home and family.   Built to last at a time when slavery was yet to be banished it had stood for over 150 years.   And I waited…I waited as I walked slowly through the house, waiting for the sadness, waiting for perhaps sorrow—it did not come, surely grace had weaved it’s power into my heart and I had peace.  This was a house, the heart of which was one small family—we shared their joys and their sorrows and our hearts hold fast the memories.

The family times when two young boys were impatient to leave the table but had to wait, the scripture reading that each had to read and share and just hope that someone would know where the scripture could be found in God’s Word besides ‘nana’—and often they did.  I remembered the beautifully set table always with a seasonal theme—hopefully I had arrived early enough to iron the tablecloth smooth, the noise of joy, the laughter as someone told of an incident at work or school,  the chatter of family the prayers of thanksgiving, nothing is lost but safe in the memory of love.

The lavender room—her room—such love had prepared it—such faith had persevered when all was lost.  But they hung on and found favor in the eyes of our Lord.  I remember the little face smiling as she awoke from her nap—always happy, always a joy to hold and hug and love. 

I came down the stairs again and did as I had always done—one two three, with a stop and a bounce on three—just to hear her giggle.  So through the rooms I travelled back through my memories and rejoiced.

As I walked I prayed—for those that had left and those that would come and be blessed as our family had been.  I reached out my hand to open the back door and thought—just one more look—and then it was done.

I walked more swiftly now across the lawn to deliver the key, Darrell and Deb were waiting, these wonderful neighbors who were still loving and caring for ‘our family’.  We prayed together before I left—she handed me a framed photograph of ‘our family’, we exchanged telephone numbers and turned she to stay and me to leave.  Lives that had touched and been touched in such a profound and eternal way. 

 I sat behind the wheel and gratitude filled my heart as I looked one more time at the beauty of the garden, sensed the sounds and fragrance of autumn moving in and I knew that a season of life had turned and I had peace.   

‘Nana’ - August 25^th. 2011